


Monsters Under the Bed

by kinzeylee



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/F, F/M, Missy/Clara in an antagonistic unresolved sort of way, Non-Consensual Kissing, nothing worse than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinzeylee/pseuds/kinzeylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The conscience of the queen is a heavy thing. The conscience of an almost-queen is heavier still. (Or: Clara gets unwelcome nightmares and Missy gets Clara.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters Under the Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Missy and Clara are very similar in many ways, and I love all of their interactions. So, this happened.

Once, she asked him about his dreams, a long time ago, when he was still the him that she fell in love with. And being the ego-centric Time Lord that he was (is) he gave her vague poetic answers and then never inquired about her own. Which was fine. Clara’s dreams weren’t especially interesting at that point in her life.

Needless to say, that’s changed now.

She’s had dreams about the moon heaving under her feet and a train filled with passengers exploding in outer-space, or the silence that descends over a phone call when only one person is left to talk and her lover, made of metal, a single tear running down his cheek. These are her dreams now, filled with blackboards and tangerines. And one more thing, if she’s being honest (which she usually isn’t).

There’s a snake in the garden that looks like a woman. In her dreams, it offers her a fruit. Clara has always been very curious.

 

 

“What am I to you?” 

 

 

This is how it starts:

Clara’s sleeping, and then she’s dreaming, the world of her imagination coalescing into foggy grey walls. At any other time, Clara would be greatly surprised to find that she’s dreaming lucidly – but this is hardly any time. Because currently, she’s standing in front of a woman she tried to kill.

“You,” she says, and can’t think of anything else to say.

“Me,” Missy confirms with a savage smile. Clara feels her hands ball up into fists.

Missy notices this and she frowns, her lips turning into the parody of a pout. “My dear Clara, don’t be upset with me. I just had to drop in for a visit; I was missing you. Last time we met up there wasn’t any time for a proper conversation, was there?”

“No,” Clara says, “I’m not going to talk to you, not if I have any say in it. And we’re certainly not going to have a friendly conversation.”

“Who said anything about friendly?” Missy goads. “Why Clara, I do think you’re getting ideas.” She cocks her head to the side the way a bird of prey does when sizing up its next meal. “Although now that you’ve mentioned it, I don’t believe I ever got to give you your welcome package.”

It takes Clara only a fraction of a second to realize what the deranged Time Lady before her is talking about, but she still doesn’t manage to move fast enough before Missy is on her. Hands grasp onto either side of her face and oh- suddenly she feels terrible for ever teasing the Doctor about it because karma can be terribly vicious. Missy is entirely thorough, her tongue deft as a snakes and tasting like fruit…

Then Missy has detached and Clara can breathe again. She gasps, stumbling slightly at the sudden change. Missy is fixing her hair nonchalantly, but when she sees the wide-eyed look of shock Clara is giving her, she crosses her arms in front of her in a poised manner, as if reprimanding a young child.

“What was that for?!” Clara demands, once she’s recollected her wits.

“Oh Clara,” Missy coos, “don’t be so coy. This isn’t the first time you’ve snogged yourself.”

Clara feels herself flush in embarrassment even as her anger spikes. “How do you-”

“-know about that saucy little dream starring you and Danny Pink?” Missy finishes, obviously delighted. “I know every little thing about you, Clara. I studied you under a microscope, learned all your secrets. Don’t look like that, dearie! It’s because I love you, you see.”

“Love me!” Clara gaps, backing up to avoid the stealthy advances of the Time Lady. “You don’t know the first thing about love!”

“Oh, but Clara Clara Clara, my dear Clara,” Missy sings in a way that is both mocking and sincere, “I do love you so. I’d also kill you if the whim possessed me, but surely you can’t fault a mad lady for that?”

Clara growls.

“Perhaps you can,” Missy concedes, with the expression of a wounded puppy, “but my point is, you gave me so much that I can’t help but feel that we have a special connection.” Her voice drops deep at the last word, taking on a husky tone.

Clara is confused, but also mortified and disgusted, and the latter two outweigh the former one. “I didn’t give you anything!” she shouts. “And you’re just a thing I’ve dreamt up for myself in my head! You’re not real. You’re dead.”

“Time travel has always been possible in dreams,” Missy quips, in a surprisingly good imitation of Vastra’s wiser-than-thou air, “or I could just be a repressed part of your sexual psyche. But truly, Clara dear, it hurts that you don’t remember the gift you gave to me. It was such a character-building experience, after all.”

Clara is officially sick of this game. “What,” she snaps, dead-toned. “What did I give to you?”

Missy lights up like it’s Christmas and simpers, “I thought you’d never ask.” And with that she reaches with one hand into her other sleeve – dagger, Clara thinks hysterically for a moment - and pulls a small object out, presenting it with a flourish.

“Do you remember now, Clara?” she asks, eyes batting in a way far more cruel than innocent, and that’s when the dream spirals away into a land of grey dust, sucking Clara with it, but she still sees what the mad woman wanted her to see, and she’s still screaming, even when she wakes up.

 

 

_He’d just been a boy, only a boy, and yet – and yet she’d assumed it was him, hadn’t she? Because it made the most sense at the time, or because she’d thought she understood how telepathic-time travel worked. Or because…what, she had an unbreakable bond with him that transcended logic and time? But now – the proof’s only in her dreams, and she knows dreams are never reliable – there’s room for doubt._

_What had been the first Doctor’s hair color? White, as far as she can tell from the photos of him. But everyone goes white, eventually, so there’s no telling. Unless she asks._

_His ankle was pale and clammy when she’d reached out and grabbed him, a motion she couldn’t quite control until it was too late._

_And then, well, everything was set in motion, wasn’t it?_ (She has no idea which way the ball is rolling.)

 

 

“Doctor,” Clara asks with some trepidation, fiddling with her shoulder bag so her nerves are directed into something besides shaking, “Do you remember when you thought there were creatures surrounding us all the time, except no one knew they were there, and all they did was listen to us talk out loud to ourselves? And I said you were just tricking yourself?”

The Doctor looks up from the other side of the console and says very loudly, “ _Yes, of course I understand it was only my imagination!_ ” But when he rounds the console and draws closer, he whispers, “Actually, I’m still not so sure on that point.”

After an uneasy glance around the Tardis, Clara says, “But that day, you told me something. You said fear is a superpower or a…a constant companion. When you told me that I felt braver.”

“Well, yes,” says the Doctor, “that sounds like me.”

“My point is,” Clara says, “who taught you that? Where’d you first hear that from?”

The Doctor frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

Um... “I’ve been telling the students at school.” Yes, that sounds plausible. “Especially the ones who get bullied. It helps them. So, was it a teacher you had? Or maybe a stranger? Or…a good friend?”

The Doctor’s frown becomes more pronounced, but she can tell this is his thinking face, not his I-don’t-trust-you face. He’s staring just above her head and finally after a very long time he opens his mouth to answer and even though she desperately needs to know this ( _it was you, wasn’t it? you were scared and sleeping in the cold, right? it was you?_ ) her heart jumps into her throat –

“No idea,” he says. “Must have deleted it. But it’s a good little speech, isn’t it? Works every time I’ve used it.”

“Yeah,” she echoes, “works every time.” And wonders _just how well is too well?_

 

 

Her bed is empty, except for her, except for Missy, who curls up next to her like a ghost, a cat, _I always wanted a cat, but not a madwoman, not a ghost_ , and most nights when Clara’s not caught up in some bizarre dream featuring said madwoman, she’s staring at her bedside table. Not at the clock, not at the stack of books neatly situated in the corner, but at a figurine that may or may not be real; may or may not be a mental representation of her guilt; may or may not be Dan-the-Soldier-Man saying _you killed me, you gave me to an alien in a barn before you even asked their name and see what happened?_

She does not like looking at it. For many reasons. One, it has a very accusatory tone that Clara may deserve but certainly doesn’t want to hear. Two, she tries not to acknowledge things that aren’t real. Even Missy. (But somehow, that alien manages to slip through her defenses, making her lips respond before her brain can comprehend.)

She stays up at night with Dan-the-Soldier-Man so that she can avoid her conscience, which may or may not be an evil mass murderer.

(This may or may not be a dream, but it’s certainly the truth.)

 

 

_What am I to you?_

Missy always asks the same question.

Clara never has the answer, waking or asleep.

 

 

“Doctor,” she says offhand, so casually, as they’re floating in the Tardis and he’s scribbling at his blackboard, “what does your conscience look like?”

“Eh?” is the reply she gets.

Clara sighs, doesn’t know where his confusion could come from, but rephrases anyway. “When you envision your conscience, if you do, that is, if you have one,” a joke that falls flat, “what would it look like?”

The Doctor turns only slightly, only for a moment, and says half to her/half to his scribbles, “We already went over this, Clara. We agreed that you’re my care-er. You care so I don’t have to.”

 _No, we didn’t agree, you just appointed me_ , she thinks, and _how could I have forgotten_ , and also _how I’ve let you down_ but she says: “Well, not such a good one, am I?”

“Tell me about it,” the Doctor retorts. “I’d put an ad out in the papers for a new one, but I doubt anybody’d take the job.”

It bothers her only slightly that she can’t tell if he’s fooling. Turning away, she mutters, “I think I know someone who would.”

“Eh?”

Damn Timelord ears.

“Nothing,” she says, louder this time, “I just said ‘I don’t think I know someone who could.’”

“Humfp,” says the Doctor, and goes back to writing, and they settle into the easy silence of pretending that she didn’t just change her words.

Lying, she finds, has not disappeared between them. Instead, it is another common language they share. It is like living, like breathing, now; not painful like drowning, but in the way fish live. Swimming. Clara follows the current and watches the Doctor work.

 

 

Turns out Missy isn’t dead. Clara is not happy with this development.

(but time travel has always been possible in dreams, so in her dreams, when she dreams, she hopes it’s only a dream)

 

 

“-explain to me why she’s still alive when we saw her die. I saw her die.” _Danny’s dead and I saw her die._

“…you’re angry.”

“No. No. I’m not angry –“

“You sound angry.”

“-but you owe me an explanation. I said it was fine, just as long as you made it up to me, so just make it up to me. Tell me why she’s here.” _Why did you allow her here._

“I…Clara…Missy has always been…stubborn, when it comes to dying. She’s very good at avoiding it. And… _andIdidn’tknowshe’dbehere_. On Earth. Or on Skaro.”

“Alright. So you’re saying...you’re saying she never stays dead. Even though we left her there, she’ll come back somehow, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“And…and you also knew she was alive and…you didn’t tell me?”

“…yes.”

“Why?”

…

“What is she to you?”

 

 

“What am I to you?”

...

 

 

“What are you?” she asks. “I want to know what you are.”

“Do you?” Missy queries with a croon. “Do you really?”

“No,” she admits, “but I need to.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” Missy nods in agreement. Her posture now belongs to that of an ancient philosopher, sculpted in stone, and Clara thinks _god, if only I’d been quicker with the stick._

 

 

_before_

“You should sleep more, dearie,” Missy says. “You look a wee bit sickly.”

“I can’t sleep.” She knows this. Is a lie.

“And what could possibly be eating at you?” But the knowing smile is there. The name that hangs between them, unsaid. Clara chooses to not let this affect her.

“I’m running,” she says with a shrug. “I’m running as far and as fast as I can, until there’s nowhere in the universe left to go.”

Missy clucks her tongue in disapproval. “That’s going to be the death of you.”

In return, Clara offers a humorless smile. “Then I’ll just have to run faster.”

“Why are you running?”

“Is this a new question?” The thought of it – two questions to answer, now – makes her contemplate the usefulness of having hysterics.

“New question, yes, but it has the same old answer.” This is not helpful. Missy knows this is not helpful.

It doesn’t stop her, though, from coming in with the evening, and staying, every single night. And it doesn’t stop Clara from searching.

 

 

“Have you been sleeping?” the Doctor asks. “Your eyes are more droopy than usual.”

Clara swats at him and misses (on purposes, though, and there’s something warm inside her chest that she is too afraid to name).

 

 

They’re sitting on the sofa in her living room, _and this is a dream_ , and Clara is trying very hard not to bang her head against the back of the cushion.

“Imagine,” says Missy, “that you’re in this hotel-that’s-not-a-hotel, and each suite-that’s-not-a-suite holds something, or someone, that is the embodiment of fear. But only one room will open for you. Are you imagining?”

“Yes,” Clara sighs. “Now what?”

“Now what, what?”

Clara’s teeth grind together of their own volition. “Now what do I do?” she clarifies. “You have me imagining a door that’s mine, with my worst fear behind it, in a hotel-that’s-not-a-hotel. What do I imagine next?”

“That’s as far as I got,” Missy says. “Really, Clara, do I always have to think of everything?”

 

 

And here’s a dream that she has, more often than not: she’s standing beneath a tree made of metal, silver vines hanging like a weeping willow, heavy with electrical fruit that glows of knowledge. The vines part in a wave, just large enough for a black figure to slither through. She approaches Clara, and when she extends her hand, a tangerine rests in her palm. It tastes of bitterness, and sorrow.

Nevertheless, Clara shares it with her lover. _Let me show you wonders, so you’ll see that you’re just the same as me. Have a taste._ She should have known better. It kills him, slowly, with just enough time for her to see the betrayal cross over his face as he is consumed by metal branches.

It’s then, as she’s mourning, that God comes walking through the garden. _Where are you?_ He calls. _What have you done with your lover? Are you not his keeper?_ She starts to tremble at his voice, but the snake wraps an arm around Clara, coos gently into her ear, “Hush, dearie. I’ll hide you.” And together they crouch in the shadows of the tree as God thunders about the garden, footfall growing heavier, closer. “Don’t you worry,” says the snake, “he’s always so cross at first. But he’ll come around, with time. Here, have another.” There’s a fresh tangerine offered in her palm, as innocuous as the first.

After so many nights and dreams, Clara knows she should resist. But it’s funny, how addiction works.

 

 

_What am I to you?_

“My constant companion,” she says, and hopes that she’s finally found the right answer.

Missy rolls her eyes. “Well _duhh_ , dearie. But you’re oh-so-close. I’ll even give you a hint: it’s a silly human emotion.”

“Fear?” Clara guesses.

A chuckle this time.

“No,” Missy says, “something worse.”

 

 

“You do not have blackboard privileges,” the Doctor rails, vigorously wiping her neat teacher-print off of the blackboard. “No one has blackboard privileges. Except for me, of course.”

“But it was a good question!” Clara counters. “Better than yours, at least! Pears aren’t sentient, and they certainly won’t be taking over the world.”

“That’s what they want you to believe,” the Doctor says.

“Seriously, Doctor,” she pushes, “it’s a good question. What emotion could be worse than fear?”

“Cowardice,” the Doctor suggests. “Hunger. Sleepiness. I hate sleeping.”

And she laughs, says _those aren’t emotions Doctor_ , who responds by saying _the body has emotions too_ , and then he looks away and so does she, and the blackboard stays empty.

 

 

_after_

“You should sleep more, dearie,” Missy says. “You look a wee bit sickly.”

“I can’t sleep.” Truth.

“And what could possibly be eating at you?” But the knowing smile is there. The name that hangs between them, unsaid.

“I’m running,” she says with a shrug. “I’m running as far and as fast as I can, until there’s nowhere in the universe left to go.”

Missy clucks her tongue in disapproval. “That’s going to be the death of you.”

In return, Clara offers a humorless smile. “Then I’ll just have to run faster.”

 

 

If the Doctor were to ask what she dreams about, and if she were an honest person, she would say something along the lines of _the things you’ve shown me_ or maybe _the things I’ve done_ , or perhaps, just for the simplicity of it, “Don’t you know?” But as previously established, Clara is not an honest person.

 

 

“What am I to you?”

 

 

Sometimes when she’s sleeping, the ghost of a mad woman climbs inside her ear and whispers secrets to her, _only her_ , as she did to someone so long ago, and this is what Missy imparts:

The universe is filled with lost time-travelers, hiding under beds just to mitigate the damage of their own existence. But sometimes, very clever people can hear these lonely souls, feel the cold touch of their hand from underneath the bed. And the touch sounds like this: love is a promise, fear is a superpower, and please Doctor won’t you see me just this once, that we’re really not so different you and I, because I would do anything for you, run hop-skip-and-a-jump through your time stream split myself apart, build an army out of the dead and hand you the button. Turn around. See me. Let me give you whispers that you’ll never hear but listen anyway, won’t you? Because I could kill you for what we’ve done, bury you, leave you to burn away on a planet of volcanoes or alone in a vast desert with only a song but I would still be crying as I did it, and it would all be in love; all, _all_ , in love.

 

 

“Clara,” this new-not-new Doctor asks her, “what could a pudding-brain possibly dream about?”

“Oh,” Clara says, “the usual.”


End file.
